I couldn't let this go on. "What I did," I told her, "was to fight fire with fire, and no one is responsible for it but myself."
"I should like to think that, but I can't," she said. "I know we all tried to do something dishonest, and while you didn't do any real wrong, yet I don't think you would have acted as you did except for our sake. And I'm afraid you may some day regret—"
"I sha'n't," I cried; "and, so far from meaning that I had lost my self-respect, I was alluding to quite another thing."
"Time?" she asked.
"No."
"What?"
"Something else you have stolen."
"I haven't," she denied.
"You have," I affirmed.
"You mean the novel?" she asked; "because I sent it in to 97 to-night."